


Your Fingers On My Soul

by KamikazeSoundSociety



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Your Soulmate Feels What You Feel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-17 10:17:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10591959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KamikazeSoundSociety/pseuds/KamikazeSoundSociety
Summary: One night halfway through Sixth at Ilvermorny, Percival wakes up suddenly. Phantom pain prickles down his spine, a terrible hunger echoes through his bones, and an awful dizzy confusion blankets everything. It isn’t before the sun has risen and his room is dusted in gold that it all recedes, and he's left with a whisper of contentment, a hot curl of happiness in his belly, and exhaustion that blankets him heavily. His soulmate has been born.(in which soulmates can feel each other's emotions)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Polymathema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polymathema/gifts).
  * Translation into Español available: [Your Fingers On My Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10629849) by [thelittlemooncalf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlemooncalf/pseuds/thelittlemooncalf)



> Based on a tumblr prompt from [polymathema,](http://polymathema.tumblr.com/), whose work you should definitely read.

One night halfway through Sixth at Ilvermorny, Percival wakes up suddenly. Phantom pain prickles down his spine, a terrible hunger echoes through his bones, and an awful dizzy confusion blankets everything. It isn’t before the sun has risen and his room is dusted in gold that it all recedes, and he’s left with a whisper of contentment, a hot curl of happiness in his belly, and exhaustion that blankets him heavily. His soulmate has been born.

The rest of Sixth is hell, because he keeps falling asleep at the most inopportune moments and his mood swings between cranky and exhausted _all the time_. His dormmates find it hilarious, and someone gifts him a baby bottle and pacifier for Yule.

Still, the knowledge that his soulmate is just a baby lights a fire beneath him. He _will_ look after them, he _will_ take care of them. It drives him, this innocent child who feels soft emotions; he receives echoes of warmth, of quiet simple happiness, of the peaceful calm of an infant’s sleep. He wants to protect and cherish his soulmate’s gentle innocence, and it’s this drive to protect that turns him to Auror training.

The first time he grew angry, truly angry, after that was when he was nineteen and a brand-new Trainee Auror. Junior Auror Frye, to whom he’s assigned, refuses to listen to him when everything inside him is _screaming_ that the warehouse they’re about to raid isn’t as empty as it seems. “What would you know?” Frye says with a sneer. He’s resentful, because Percival showed him up in front of Director Harkaway earlier that week. Despite Percival’s misgivings, they burst into the warehouse anyway. Trainee Auror Hardewicke is killed, and Junior Auror Frye loses his left eye.

Once the overwhelming fury subsides, he presses his hands into his stomach. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers, as if his soulmate could hear him.

His soulmate’s emotions are indistinct still, childish half-formed things. Percival’s anger and impotent rage has frightened them; he can feel the trembling fear, like a shivering animal trying to hide.

Except this time, unlike the handful of times when his soulmate has felt afraid before, the fear doesn’t reside. It grows stronger. Fear, and confusion, and the very real feeling of loss that builds in his chest until he can’t breathe. He has to take two days leave before he can even get out of bed, and still the awful grief trails him. Something awful has happened to his soulmate, and the impotent rage threatens to consume him again, because he can’t do anything to help the little life he promised to protect.

His soulmate’s childhood passes in this way. The fear slowly gives way to dull acceptance, heavy melancholy, and above all, roiling self-hatred. It grows worse in the evenings, and every Sunday Percival is confined to his bed, hardly daring to breathe in case it nudges the awful knot of pain, terror, and loathing that has settled beneath his breastbone.

It is around this time that his soulmate disappears for hours on end. The first time it happens Percival nearly faints, thinking his soulmate is dead. He is alone in his emotions for the first time in six years. Some hours later, his soulmate returns, exhausted and angry. Percival weeps then, full of fear. _Don’t go, don’t go_ , he tries to beg his soulmate. There is no answer but the habitual sorrow that blankets his soulmate’s every action. The episodes of blankness happen again, and again, and again. He has no idea what they could be.

Percival tries to compensate for his little love’s overwhelming misery. He works himself to the bone, solving case after case, chasing the sensation of righteous justice that flares inside him when the criminals he arrested are declared guilty. He graduates from Auror training with flying colours and fierce pride in his chest.

His soulmate’s tenth birthday arrives and he waits with baited breath for their joy when they receive their Ilvermorny letter. But there is nothing; the usual sadness, shame, and grief echo in the marrow of his bones. For the first time, Percival wonders if he soulmate is a Squib, but resolves that he doesn’t care. He will find his soulmate when they are old enough, and he will give them enough joy to drown out the echoes of this miserable childhood.

He is promoted from Junior Auror to Senior in a handful of years, and savage joy leaps in his chest every time he sits at his own desk to himself in a corner of the bullpen _._ He hopes his soulmate feels his positive emotions just as keenly as Percival can feel their misery, and so every morning he lingers over the sight of his badge that reads _Senior Auror Graves_ , trying to conjure up the sensation of pride, of joy, of determination.

 _I am proud of you,_ he tries to tell his soulmate through his emotions. _I will find you. I will make you happy._

The years pass. He doesn’t find his soulmate. The echoed emotions he feels become muted and dull. His soulmate turns seventeen but feels no joy. Percival wishes keenly that he could find them, pepper them with the love they’ve been so starved of their entire life save those blissful early years.

Although his soulmate is now of age, Percival can’t bring himself to partake in the amorous dalliances that are common in unmatched witches and wizards. Even though he no longer has any moral compunctions, he can’t bear to hurt them. He wakes up some nights flushed with a lust that isn’t his own, toes curling and belly clenching for a touch on his cock. The first time he tried to take himself in hand through that dizzying haze, his desire echoing his soulmate’s echoing his, there’s a sudden snap of emotion and clarity before he’s drowning in a sea of horror and disgust, the ever-present shame and loathing growing stronger.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers, winding his arms around his ribs and thinking of love, of forgiveness, of safety. Slowly, his soulmate’s emotions recede, and they fall back to sleep.

Percival gains a reputation among the rest of the Aurors of being utterly unflappable. The truth is that he doesn’t want to make his poor soulmate feel any worse than they already do every day. His insatiable drive to protect, as well as his reputation of having nerves of steel aids him professionally, and at the age of thirty-four, he’s promoted to Director of Magical Security when Director Harkaway retires. He lingers on the feeling of joy for days. His soulmate’s life is devoid of it, otherwise.

He is beginning to lose hope he will ever find his soulmate. He’s not even sure if they’re in the same time zone as he is. Senior Auror Sunbowe’s soulmate was on the other side of the planet before they found one another, and she’s mentioned how she’d feel tired and ready to sleep halfway through the day, and wake up halfway through the night. Percival’s soulmate is weary at all hours.

The only good thing that comes of his imprisonment under Grindelwald is that there is something in his soulmate’s life causing them to feel hope for the first time since those handful of years when he was a teenager. It flutters weakly at his breast like a wounded bird, and Percival hopes fervently that, wherever they are, his soulmate’s awful life is about to get better.

It’s a stupid hope. Their entire life has been nothing but agony and misery. Why should this be any different?

The periods of blankness become longer and more frequent. One night, he is woken from sleep by all-consuming rage and terror so incandescently bright that he manages to break through the seven layers of wards Grindelwald’s wrapped him in, and apparate straight to the office of Seraphine Picquery, where he blessedly loses consciousness.

He wakes up three days later in hospital, Junior Auror Porpentina Goldstein wringing her hands nervously at the foot of his bed. He listens to her explanation with half an ear.

He is once again alone. There is no familiar echo of emotion in his bones, no whisper of sadness inside his skull. His soulmate doesn’t come back to him. Recovery is made longer by the crushing loneliness that dogs his steps and consumes him when the Healers turn the lights off each evening.

It is months before Percival wakes up in the middle of the night, back at his apartment. A steady thrum of quiet emotion trembles at his fingertips. Hope, uncertainty, weariness. He lurches out of bed and opens his front door.

A boy – young man – stands on his doorstep, thin and in need of a haircut, his face all sharp angles and liquid feline eyes. Hope blooms inside Percival’s chest, answered by a hushed thrill and a tremulous smile on the young man’s face.

“Hello,” the young man says.

“Hello,” Percival replies.


	2. Chapter 2

I don’t think I’ll ever write a continuation to the soulmate AU. And yet; and yet.

Think of the way Credence stands shaking on the doorstep. The last six months have been like watercolour paint dripped on wet paper; poorly defined swirls of ink that bloom in the air, bleeding colour into the pavement. It feels like a fever dream, a childhood memory, a photograph of yourself attending an event you do not remember. Sometimes he would become aware of a bone-deep ache that is not his own; as he has done for the last twenty four years of his life, he pushes it away.

But one night he is weak. He feels the very matter of himself stretched soap-bubble thin through the sky, tethered to the earth by emotions that are not his own. They are leaden inside the space where his lungs once breathed and his heart once beat.

The ocean beckons, unknown and unknowable distances stretching out before him. For a moment he reaches out blindly, following the breeze above the grey rivers and into the sea. He feels the edges of himself dissipate like a drop of ink in a bathtub of water and for a moment he considers letting himself be consumed, considers following the breeze until the atoms that make up his being are dispersed in a hundred thousand different directions. He imagines what it might be like to be inhaled by the lungs of a woman in Iceland while being exhaled by an infant in Sudan while drifting along the currents above the Arafura Sea.

In the space that once housed his heart, he feels someone else as alone as he is. In the space of time it takes to blink, he sees the moon, hanging low and round and pregnant in the night sky. The stars dust the sky in cold clusters, a hundred thousand light years away from one another.

He sinks back down through smog and cigarette smoke that once would have made his eyes sting. He no longer has eyes to weep with; and he would weep, because he is wracked in agony where once he was deadened.

He yearns. He yearns for something that he has never had but that he knows nonetheless. It is the soft golden companionship that has soothed him his entire life. He finds that he can’t bear with the idea of being without it. Selfish.

Oily smoke coalesces in an alley off Pike street. His feet meet the ground. His cheeks are wet.

He walks in the darkness, half-blind and on trembling legs that haven’t been legs for very long. He knows instinctively where to go. When his soulmate opens the door he does not flinch. This is a man who is good, who is right, who is moral. He would do anything for Credence. He knows the truth of this all the way down to his bones.

Think of how Percival would cradle his soulmate’s face in his hands. _It’s you, it’s you,_ he would murmur against his brow. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry_. Credence knows he means it. Sorrow blooms underneath his tongue.

Percival helps him into the apartment. His hand on Credence’s elbow christens him inside his new body. He strips him from his clothes with silent care, and Credence is comforted by the weight of his gentle hands, the weight of his warm emotions. He helps Credence into the bath and Credence shivers, allows himself to unfurl like a flower in the cradle of the water. Water laps at his thighs.

Percival washes his hair with the gentlest care. He kneels beside the bathtub, sleeves rolled up, running his hands down Credence’s flank like he’s soothing a frightened horse. He murmurs in his ear and Credence is only half-listening, pulled between the eddies of his words in his head and the ebb of the soft emotion in his chest. He feels safe. He has not felt safe in a very long time.

Percival helps him out of the bathtub and wraps him in towels softer than anything he’s ever touched before. He gives him soft flannel pyjamas and Credence doesn’t remember falling asleep.

Think of how in the morning, Percival will order so much food from the corner diner that they will send a delivery boy to make sure he hasn’t made a mistake. He will set out a dozen dishes or more in front of Credence, anxious to provide, anxious to give, anxious to make up for the years of soul-deep hunger. Credence’s eyes will well up with emotion and Percival will understand immediately, vanish the dishes with a flick of his fingers and they’ll curl up together in one of the armchairs. Credence will let himself be fed plain toast like an infant, and Percival will know before Credence says anything when he’s had enough.

Percival will fuss over Credence. He’ll insist on gentle touches, soothing caresses and winding his fingers through his hair when Credence is curled up on the windowsill with a book. He’ll press kisses to his cheek when he brings him tea. Credence will be discomforted, at first; he has never had such gentle affection bestowed upon him before. But he feels Percival’s emotions and he knows he cannot lie. Slowly, slowly, with the speed of a glacier advancing, he begins to trust again.

Think of the first time Credence presses a shy kiss to Percival’s lips.

Perhaps it is one evening, weeks or months after that first tremulous night. Percival sits on the sofa, glass of whisky abandoned on the side table as he studies Auror reports with a frown that makes the corners of his mouth turn down. Credence is sat down beside him, pressed together elbow to shoulder and hip to knee. There is a book in his lap but not even Magical History can hold his interest for long; he keeps glancing at Percival and looking away, flushed pink. He imagines that he can feel every muscle through the two layers of cloth separating them.

Credence spends a moment too long studying the curve of Percival’s lips; he looks up and Credence is caught. “What is it, darling?” he’ll ask with a gentleness that belies the sharp lines of his suit.

A hot frisson of nerves makes Credence’s stomach tremble. Percival raises an eyebrow in response. Credence takes a deep breath and before he can overthink he leans forwards, shy and awkward.

He means for the kiss to be quick, an expression of his trembling adoration; but Percival gasps, mouth falling open. He brings his arms around him, one hand in his hair, the other winding easily around his waist. His lips are satin soft and his hand is warm where it settles over his hip.

The long muscles of Credence’s neck relax by quivering inches; he brings his palm over Percival’s cheek, fingertips sweeping over his cheekbone. Percival makes a soft noise and his tongue darts out, dancing along his lips and he gasps, letting him lick in, sweet, dizzy. Beneath the sweet tartness of the honeyed dessert they’d shared with one spoon Percival tastes dark and Credence is drunk on it.

Credence’s world tilts on its axis and spins unsteadily; it snaps back, revolving around the hot touch of lips to his, the gentle fingertips pressed into the nook of his spine. He feels the constriction of his clothes across his shoulders and he thinks he might burst from his skin like a butterfly from its cocoon.

The Auror reports slide to the ground, forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hello at [my tumblr!](http://kamikazesoundsociety.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello over at [my tumblr,](http://kamikazesoundsociety.tumblr.com/) where you can find more of my work under the 'world building' prompt :)


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